


The Day of the Mother

by genericfanatic



Category: Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: Gen, Mother's Day
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-05-12
Updated: 2019-05-12
Packaged: 2020-03-01 13:58:42
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,274
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18801736
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/genericfanatic/pseuds/genericfanatic
Summary: Catelyn Stark celebrates the Day of the Mother with her daughters.





	The Day of the Mother

**Author's Note:**

> This is my mother's day gift to my mama, who got me to read A Song of Ice and Fire!

The North had it’s own set of holidays. Most of them were either wild drinking parties that would make southern men blush, or absolute silent contemplation before a weir tree. There was very little in between. 

So few of the holidays involved going outside. Catelyn remembered in the Riverlands, the dances she and her sisters would have along the banks, completely barefoot and laughing. It was too cold up here to go anywhere outside barefoot. It was almost too cold to go anywhere INSIDE barefoot. 

Still, here they were in the center of their latest spring. The last winter had been harsh, lasting over a year this time. Catelyn had barely stepped out of the castle at all. She had acclimated some to the cold weather, but she still preferred warm, despite her husband’s insistence she could just always put on more clothes. 

Now, though, she stepped outside and felt the sun on her face, bright and welcoming. What a wonderful day it was, as well. 

In the south there were seven major holidays, one for each of the gods. The Warrior’s called for tourneys and duels, the Maiden’s for frivolity, the Stranger’s for lonely contemplation of the year gone and the year to come. But the Mother’s had always been her favorite. 

She walked out of the gates of Winterfell, nodding to the guards, with her basket on her arm. In the Riverlands there would be a march of women heading out, young and old, rich and poor, whole generations together to celebrate life. Here there was only her. 

She made it to the edge of the forest, where the wildflowers bloomed, flowers she had planted here the two years before. She was worried the winter might have killed them with frost, but they’d made it. It had taken years to find the right types of flowers that could survive the harsh conditions of the north. They didn’t bloom as bright or colorful as flowers in the south, but they were sturdy, like everything here.

“Quit pushing!” she heard behind her. She looked around, smiling as her daughters followed, Arya stumbling on her little legs, trying to push her big sister out of the way. Sansa was already trying to look dignified, a difficult task for a girl of 6. 

Arya finally made it in front, only to get tangled in her skirts and fall face-first in the dirt. Catelyn, sighed, but couldn’t help being amused. Arya could hardly wake up in the morning without getting covered in dirt. 

“Hello, Mother,” Sansa said, smile on her face she had practiced from watching the grown up nobles, “We were wondering if we could join you.”

“Father sent us!” Arya giggled, receiving a harsh ‘Shhh!’ from Sansa.

Catelyn might have known. She had mentioned to Ned last night she’d be going out for this. He’d offered to come with her, but she told him that this was meant only for women, to honor their mothers, both in the literal sense and all the women who had come before. 

And so, despite the fact he knew she was ok with her children growing up with the north’s traditions, he had sent their daughters to go with her, to carry on this one tradition from the South. 

“Come here,” she beckoned her daughters. “These are wildblooms. We’re going to carefully harvest them so that we can decorate our hall.”

Sansa and Arya sat on either side of her, watching as Catelyn used a spade to loosen up the dirt, and then her own hands to pull the flower from the ground, roots and all. 

Sansa turned up her nose. She didn’t like getting dirty. When Catelyn handed her a spade, she tried to use it to dig up the flower, touching as little of the dirt as she could. Arya, meanwhile, didn’t see much use for the spade at all, grabbing the flowers at the base and yanking them out. “Arya, careful,” her mother urged, “We want to take out the roots as well, so that when we plant in new seeds, they have room to grow.”

Arya scowled, impatient. She was already getting antsy, and Catelyn could tell she was about ready to run up the nearest tree. So, Catelyn took a sigh, and reached into her basket. “Arya,” she said, “You see that line of dirt that I’ve pulled up already?” Arya nodded, grumpily. “I need you to take these seeds and run up and down that line, tossing the seeds into place, so they’ll be ready to grow for next spring.”

Arya brightened at the idea of getting to run. She took a fistful of seeds and raced up and down the line. The seeds flew wildly, most blowing on the wind to be lost in the forest, but enough made it into the dirt where they’d get sun and rain, and would grow, so she was happy.

“Sansa,” Catelyn said, “Why don’t you start working on the flower chains we’ll use to decorate. You know how, right?”

Sansa was eager to get away from the dirt and sit on the soft grass instead, knotting one flower to the next and the next, cutting off the roots to leave the beautiful flowers behind. 

Arya ran out her energy, lying on the ground, and Catelyn could tell she was getting bored again. “Why flowers?” She asked her mom, “They’re dumb.”

“They’re not dumb!” Sansa yelled back, “They’re pretty! YOU’RE dumb.”

“Girls,” Catelyn chided. “It’s true, Arya. These flowers don’t seem to hold much purpose for us. They’re not food, nor medicine, nor anything for us to use practically,” She used her spade to dig up a particularly stubborn rock, pulling the plant whole to present to Arya, “But it’s life. And life in all forms should be celebrated.”

She handed the flower to Sansa to allow her to add it to the collection of flowers that needed weaving. She already had the hands of a prime seamstress. “The Day of the Mother is all about celebrating that life, the cycle that it has. These flowers teach us about how life will bloom, and eventually fade, leaving behind seeds to take its place. Just as I’m raising the both of you for my legacy, and someday, you will raise your own children, for your legacies.”

Sansa smiled, as prim and proper as a lady could. Arya, meanwhile, sniveled. “I don’t want any babies. Bran is stinky enough.”

Catelyn had to pull in all her motherly training to stop herself smirking at that one. She loved all her babies, but Bran was rather loud, and, comparative to his siblings, stinky. “Well, I’m sure you’ll find your own legacy, then.” She figured Arya would change her mind when she was older, but that was a fight for another time. “For now, why don’t you help Sansa with this legacy of flowers.”

Arya sighed, and took a pair, tying them into horrible knots. She took none of the care that Sansa had, getting the best stems and showing the best flowers. Still, she was small, so Catelyn didn’t chide her. She was mostly just grateful they were there at all. 

She looked forward to seeing these girls grow like the flowers before them and what sort of young ladies they’d grow into. What sort of mother she would be.

She decided she’d dug up enough flowers and sat in a circle with the girls to help them (mostly Arya) make the flower chains they’d hang in the hall. She smiled in the crisp spring air. It was a wonderful way to spend the day, with just mother and daughters.


End file.
